


A Game of Betrayal

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty questions Moran about betrayal. (Or, Moriarty introduces a new element to their games.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, this is all consensual roleplay.

  “Why have you betrayed me, Colonel?” the professor asks, and Moran ceases his struggling against the restraints and just stares up at him.

    “Sir?” He unwittingly tugs against the chains attached to his wrists once more as he tries to move closer to Moriarty. “Sir, I haven’t, I’d never…”

   “You may protest your innocence all you wish, Moran, but the evidence is conclusive: you _have_ betrayed me.” Moriarty’s tone is cool; calm, but the look in his eyes – blue eyes but that look nearly grey in this dim light – is dangerous.

   Moran cannot keep himself from flushing with shame at the words, though he knows they’re not true. He bows his head and crouches there, almost on his knees, naked, entirely at the mercy of a master who accuses him of a crime – the worst possible crime – he knows himself innocent of.

  It is a shock to hear the professor speak so, even though Moran had expected something of the kind when Moriarty led him down here, to this dank, dark room where Moran knows other men have faced the same accusation, and had their appropriate punishments meted out.

   Stripped, chained by the wrists to a stout metal ring in the floor, he was left to kneel there while Moriarty paced back and forth, removing his own jacket first, then carefully removing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves, until at last he came to stand over Moran and utter those words that contain the power to leave Moran reeling as surely as if he’d been struck.

   “Yes you may well look ashamed, Colonel.” Moriarty grips him roughly by the hair and tugs his head back up. “So you should be, to have repaid my generosity towards you; my trust; my care, with such treachery.”

   “I haven’t, sir, I didn’t…” Something constricts Moran’s throat then, something that threatens to burst out of him in an anguished sob.

   “Only _you_ knew about the plans for the Hall diamond,” Moriarty snarls, dragging Moran towards him by the hair, making him cry out in pain. The chains about Moran’s wrists are not long enough to allow him to stand and so he also finds his arms painfully wrenched by the move. Still he looks up at the professor, trembling all over from the tension and the chill of the room, but with boldness. “Only _you_ could have let something slip. What was it, Colonel, hmm? Did some pretty little harlot use her wiles upon you, to seduce your secrets out of you, or did you simply decide to sell your information to the highest bidder in a calculated act of betrayal?”

   “No sir!” Moran snaps.

   “You’re either an incompetent drunk or a wilful traitor, Moran, which is it?” Moriarty tugs excruciatingly on Moran’s hair again.

   “No sir,” Moran says fiercely. “Neither, sir.”

   Moriarty gives a disdainful snort as he releases his grip. “I cannot trust you any longer.” He trails his hand down Moran’s face, and Moran seems to forget himself.

   “Please, Professor.” He nuzzles against Moriarty’s palm, as he has so many times before. “I didn’t-”

   Moriarty draws his hand back and slaps Moran across the cheek, sending him sprawling to the floor. “Liar!” he says, making the word an exclamation yet barely raising his voice at all.

   Moran curls on the floor on his side, feeling tears springing into his eyes. It takes him several moments before he can bring himself to sit up once again and look at the professor.

   “I cannot trust you,” Moriarty says once more. “And so, my poor misguided pet, what use are you to me if I can no longer trust you?”

    “Sir, I’d not betray you, I’d never betray you.” Moran tries to shuffle forward on his knees, trying to press himself against his master’s body. “James, please.”

    But Moriarty recoils from him, giving him another slap across the face that sends him sideways again. “No, pet, none of that. You don’t deserve my kindness, not any more.”

    Moran remains on his side for a few moments, seeming to choke back a sob, then he rolls onto his back, his arms twisted painfully behind him by the chains. “Sir, please,” he says. “Please, I didn’t…”

    “Look at you,” Moriarty says, his tone conveying abject disgust. “Unable to help yourself even now.”

    Moran instinctively tries to press his legs together to hide the cause for Moriarty’s sudden contempt, but the professor nudges his thighs open with a booted foot, prominently displaying Moran’s growing arousal.

    “You are no more than a whore, Sebastian,” Moriarty remarks. “As such, therefore, I should use you as one, and nothing more.” He presses the toe of his boot down against Moran’s testicles, and Moran screams.

    When he can next focus through the pain and the tears that have filled his eyes once more, the professor has him gripped by the hair again. He can hear the rustle of fabric and then he is dragged up and forward, and suddenly the tip of Moriarty’s own hot, stiff length is being pushed to his lips.

    “Take it in your mouth,” Moriarty commands him. “Take it like the slut you are.”

    Moran cannot refuse him, whether in spite of or because of the accusations Moriarty has thrown at him, he is uncertain, but the man is still his master and his beloved, no matter what. He parts his lips and allows Moriarty to shove his prick into his mouth, still careful to avoid scraping it with his teeth.

    It’s rough and painful. Moriarty never lets up his agonising grip on Moran’s hair, and he forces his length deep into Moran’s throat, holding it there for several moments, until Moran feels he must suffocate, before finally drawing back a degree.

     “Yes, good,” Moriarty says, not letting up in his harsh thrusting, relishing the warmth and wetness of Moran’s mouth, and his obedience and willingness to please even here. “Take it, all of it.” He can only manage a grunt though, no more words, by the climax, when he forces himself as deep into Moran’s throat as he can and then goes very still as his prick pulses, spilling his seed into his lover.

    When he pulls out and finally lets go of Moran’s hair, Moran falls forward, coughing. His face is flushed; his lips swollen, red and wet. His cock is equally swollen, standing up stiffly between his legs, smearing a little fluid over his belly.

    “Professor,” he says hoarsely, keeping his head bowed and only raising his eyes.

    Moriarty eyes him disdainfully as he tucks himself back into his clothing. “What precisely do you expect me to do with _that_?” he enquires, giving a sharp nod at Moran’s arousal. “You don’t deserve release, Colonel, and why should I concern myself with the pleasures of a _whore_? A _slut_? You are a vessel to be used for my pleasure, no more. In fact, since I can no longer trust you, perhaps I should keep you down here. Chained. Bound. Waiting only to be filled; to be _fucked_ whenever I desire it.”

    “No sir, please…” Moran shakes his head. “Please, James!”

    He knows Moriarty better than anyone; knows that he is perfectly capable of leaving a man down here, alone and helpless. Of course he wouldn’t, not to _him_ , says some dim part of his mind, but even the merest thought of being left chained down here, unable to escape, with nobody to hear or answer his cries for help, makes him shudder.

    Moriarty watches him for a moment through half-lidded eyes, seeming to ponder something, before he retreats into the shadows in the corner of the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

   “Professor?” Moran calls, when nothing further happens for some time.

   “You want to be fucked right now, don’t you?” Moriarty says, returning into the pool of light, to stand over his captive colonel. He drags a stout chair with him and sets it down beside Moran. “Don’t you?” he demands, slapping Moran’s cheek again sharply when he fails to answer.

    “Yes, sir,” Moran replies in a tremulous voice.

    “Even now you crave nothing more than to have my _prick_ inside you; you yearn to be able to ride it while I take your stiff length in my hand and bring you to release.”

    “Yes, sir.”

     “Yes, of course you do.” Moriarty smiles – rather maliciously so. “Yet why do you assume you deserve such a reward, Colonel? You _are_ a traitor, after all.”

    Fury flashes in Moran’s blue eyes, cutting momentarily through his unease. “I’m not a traitor, _sir_!”

    “Oh pet, you forget your place. You are a traitor if I say you are a traitor; you are a whore if I say you are a whore. As such, I may do whatever I desire to you. If that means leaving you down here to _rot_ …” Moriarty’s voice is heavy with menace as he stoops over Moran momentarily. “Then I shall do so. Likewise, if I decide instead to throw you over this chair, like _so_.” He drags Moran up, dumping him rather inelegantly over the chair, his chest over its seat, leaving him with his knees on the floor and his arse in the air. His arms are pulled forward by the chains and he rests his face against his left forearm. “Then I shall do precisely that.” Moriarty smacks him sharply then across the buttocks with the flat of his hand, and Moran lets out a hissing breath. “You do always look so delectable, pet, laid out for me so,” the professor observes, and uses the toe of his boot now to nudge Moran’s legs wider apart. “Yes, splayed out for me like the insatiable slut you are, craving the feel of my _cock_ inside you.”

    Moran groans deeply.

    “What if I left you here like this though, hmm?” Moriarty trails two fingers lightly down Moran’s spine, making him shiver and moan slightly. “Desperate for release, utterly helpless, trapped in this position until a time of my choosing.”

    “Please, sir,” Moran says, almost forgetting now in his haze of lust and arousal just precisely what game they are playing. He tries to rut against the chair slightly, craving some kind of friction against his aching manhood.

    “Ah, no!” Moriarty slaps him smartly across the buttocks once more, and Moran growls in frustration. “Oh tiger, you still forget yourself, and you forget that _I –_ not you – get to decide how, and when, and indeed _if_ you shall have your release. You _are_ a traitor, after all.”

    Moran twists his head round and glares at Moriarty over his shoulder. “I’m not a fucking traitor!”

    “Language, Colonel!” Moriarty strikes him across the buttocks this time with a thin cane, and Moran is so startled – not just from the pain but because he hadn’t even seen Moriarty pick up the cane – that he lets out an extremely undignified shout.

    This only earns a chuckle from the professor and he smiles, pleased by the sight of the reddening welt across his lover’s backside. “I think…” he says, trailing the tip of the cane down Moran’s back, down between his buttocks, making him shiver again with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. “If you were to admit to your treachery; admit that you have betrayed me, then I might see fit to forgive you.”

    Moran stares at him over his shoulder again. He knows what this means – lie; admit to something he knows is a falsehood; condemn himself before his master, all for the sake of being allowed his own release.

     “No,” he says.

    “No?” Moriarty arches an eyebrow at him. “Oh my dear colonel, you do disappoint me. First you betray me and then you further compound your sin by lying about it?”

    “I’ll not admit to that, I will not-” Moran’s furious words are cut off by a howl of pain as Moriarty gives him another swift cut with the cane across the left buttock. His hands clench in the cuffs and he presses his face hard against his forearm again, trying to smother his own sobs of pain and frustration. Yet his prick is harder than ever in response to the smarting in his backside, and to the helplessness of his situation.

    “It is perfectly simple, Colonel,” Moriarty says, his tone pleasant and conversational, as if he is discussing nothing more than the weather. “Admit your treachery.”

    “No, no, damn you, no!” Moran’s response is muffled, but Moriarty can clearly discern the desperation in his voice. It is no surprise then that when Moran turns his head to regard him once more there are tears trickling down his cheeks.

    Moriarty regards him in silence momentarily, and then he walks back into the shadows of the corner. “All right, Moran,” he says. He is not, despite what many might think, without empathy, or without a shred of compassion. He has pushed Moran to the brink now, tried to wring from him a confession of what is to both of them the worst possible sin Moran could commit but his refusal is clear. Enough, then.

    Still, he does not intend to allow Moran to have this his own way. Unless Moran requests a complete stop to today’s activities then Moriarty ends this game on his terms, not on those of his pet. He puts down the cane and picks up something else, something shorter but considerably thicker and harder, and carries this over to Moran.

     The colonel, still sniffling slightly but unable to quell his curiosity, looks at it. It is a carved phallus, made of what appears to be some kind of dark wood, perfectly smooth but both longer and thicker than the professor’s manhood, and far more unyielding. Moran eyes it for a moment and swallows thickly.

    “Not to your taste, pet?” Moriarty says pleasantly. “How curious; I believed you to be so desperate to have something inside you.”

    “Sir, I…” Moran breaks off and leans his forehead against his arm, sighing deeply. He wants the professor inside him; wants to feel his master’s prick pushed up into him and his warm weight against his back and the heat of his release in his stretched passage when finally Moriarty comes again, but he has had no serious expectation of this happening this time since the professor has already come once today. It is not entirely implausible to think that Moriarty could be physically capable of taking him again but it _is_ – given Moriarty’s nature – extremely unlikely, and the object held in his hand now surely indicates that he has absolutely no intention whatsoever of giving Moran what he desires.

    “Was I so mistaken, pet?” Moriarty asks.

    Moran seems to curse under his breath, but he is so desperately aroused he cannot possibly answer anything but: “No, sir.”

    “Very good.” Moriarty quickly slicks up the carved phallus with oil, then, placing one hand against the small of Moran’s back, he uses the other to push the tip of the toy between Moran’s buttocks. Though it is well lubricated, there is little in the way of further preparation, and Moran squirms as Moriarty uses slow but steady pressure to work it into him. He feels himself being opened up and there is a slight burning sensation, not enough to count fully as pain, but he is uneasy, acutely aware that the human body can take a great deal but it is rather fragile even so.

    He had drawn in a breath at the instant when Moriarty began the insertion and he only finally lets it out when he hears the professor remind him to breathe.

    “Too much?” Moriarty asks, a genuine query, and he has – now that he has the toy fully inserted – temporarily ceased his movements, allowing Moran to adjust to the sensations of being stretched and filled by it.

    Moran cannot answer except with a slight shake of his head. It _is_ too much – all of this is too much – but not in the way the professor means. His own helplessness and humiliation at his lover’s hands excites him in ways he hates to admit to even to himself. There exists such love and trust between him and his professor that he submits to acts he could once only have privately fantasised about, and they have an intense effect on him. To be dominated and hurt and humiliated; to be bound and restrained and to have his beloved make the most foul accusations or call him all manner of names and to dangle the threat of the most terrible punishments imaginable over him is the most powerful aphrodisiac and makes him react in ways he has never reacted to another. So yes, it is too much, but he craves it all.

    “Then beg me to allow you release,” Moriarty commands. “Beg me, my pet, my whore, _mein liebchen_.” He gives the toy a slight twist that wrenches a low moan from Moran.

    “Please,” he says. “Please, Professor, please let me finish now.”

    “Not sincere enough, I think.” Moriarty slides the phallus out a little way then presses it back in, angling it carefully now so as to stimulate Moran’s prostate.

    “Please!” Moran cries, struggling under the professor’s touch, as he puts a hand on Moran’s back again to steady him, while continuing that delicious yet infuriating internal stimulation. “Please, oh god, please sir! _Please_ let me come now.” He’d almost be willing to say he’d do anything – even lie and admit betrayal if Moriarty wanted that still – he is so desperate now.

    Moriarty has begun fucking him more vigorously with the toy, drawing it out and pushing it in again more swiftly, angling it so as to stimulate Moran enough to make him even more frantic with arousal but not quite enough so as to tip him over the edge.

    “ _Please_ , sir,” he sobs, his eyes screwed tightly shut. “Please, Professor, James, I need…” It is humiliating, being taken this way, with an inanimate object – worse because despite everything it feels so incredibly good. But it is still not quite enough to cause him to finish. He wants to feel Moriarty’s hand on his prick, stroking him to climax, but the professor’s free hand remains firmly pressed against Moran’s back, keeping him in position and preventing him from thrusting against the chair enough to bring himself off that way.

    “You want to climax,” Moriarty says, now closer to Moran’s ear as he half leans and half lies over his helpless lover.

    “Yes sir, please sir,” Moran sobs.

    “Are you a traitor, Moran?” Moriarty asks. “Have you betrayed me?”

    “No sir, never sir. I’d never…”

    “You would never betray me?”

    “No sir!” Moran cries, sounding half-hysterical. “Never. Never, I’d never…”

    “Of course not, my good, sweet, loyal Sebastian.” Suddenly Moriarty’s hand is on his prick, his fingers wrapping around its hot stiffness for only mere moments before Moran is crying out, spilling copiously over Moriarty’s hand, and over the chair and some over his stomach too.

    He is sobbing and incoherent when Moriarty releases the chains from around his wrists and lies him carefully down on a blanket.

    “Shhh, shhh, my good, loyal boy; my dove; _mein liebchen_ ,” Moriarty soothes, but Moran probably can’t hear him at present.

    His pupils are wide, his gaze is unseeing. He has only the dimmest, most distant awareness of Moriarty wrapping the blanket around him and half-leading, half-carrying him from the dark room, up and into the warmth and light of their bedroom. He comes to himself again on his back on the bed, finding Moriarty sitting beside him and carefully washing the mess from his body with a warm, wet cloth.

    Moriarty’s gaze rests upon his but he seems to neither demand nor expect an immediate response, aware that Moran needs to be allowed a few moments more to recover his senses.

    “Professor,” Moran says finally, his voice sounding rather frail and still uncertain. “James, I…”

    “Hush, hush now.” Moriarty diligently wipes away the last traces of Moran’s release before setting the cloth aside. “I am so proud of you, my brave tiger.”

    Moran twists his face sideways, pressing it half into the soft pillows. Such words in moments like these touch him in a way he does not know how to respond to. He feels embarrassed, his face flushing, but proud too – proud because he can make his lover so proud of him.

    At last all he can think to say is, “I’d never betray you, Professor.”

    “I know, Sebastian.” Moriarty brushes a damp lock of hair away from Moran’s forehead. “My sweet Sebastian, of course I know that.” He drops his hand, cupping Moran’s cheek with great tenderness and now when Moran presses into the touch there is no slap in response, nothing but Moriarty pressing his lips to Moran’s for the gentlest and most tender of kisses.

    When the kiss is over Moriarty still keeps his hand pressed to Moran’s face momentarily, before he gives him a faint smile and stands up.

     “Lie back,” he says. “Rest for a few minutes, then shortly we must consider where we will dine tonight.”

    “Yes Professor.” Food is of no importance to him at present though; only of consequence is the lingering knowledge that he is cared for by the man he adores; that he is, in a way peculiar to Moriarty, loved, even.

    He settles himself back against the pillows, feeling very drained but deeply, profoundly contented.


End file.
